Fly Me Through Your Heart
by awesomnia
Summary: Fly me through your heart, an arrow straight to your soul. Give me strength so I may fly. Give me wings so I may soar, and fall from the sky; an Icarus of modern legend. When Arthur wakes up with wings, everything changes, and everything is the same. USUK


_fly me through_

_your heart, an arrow straight through your soul. Give me wings so I may soar, and fall from the sky; an Icarus of modern legend. When Arthur wakes up with wings, everything changes, and everything is the same. USxUK. A tale told in five parts._

**urgh I don't even know what it is. It doesn't make much sense.**

**Read, review, enjoy. **

**But please review~**

_FLYMETRHOUGHYOURHEART_

_First Act_

_Ascendant by Accident._

_ I remember that morning as if it were a half remembered dream, and indeed, the whole incident seems vaguely unreal now. I was seventeen, immortal in the way youth are always immortal; that delicious invulnerability that pervades the young. Not yet tempered by crisis or broken by tragedies, I was a boy about to become a man, an intellectual delinquent, the punk boy with straight A's, I was Arthur Kirkland._

_ The thing I remember most about the night before was that I had a European History paper due, and that I dreamt of bloody swords and battles swirling into each other, the Thirty Years War mixing with World War One mixing with The War of the Roses. I was a fighter, a warrior, and the dream was dreadfully exciting. Until some bastard chopped my arms off._

_In retrospect, I suppose that was some sort of bloody foreshadowing._

It is a Thursday, and Arthur Kirkland is abruptly awakened by the shrill ringing of his alarm clock. He is quite an ordinary sixteen-year-old teenage boy, his only particularly unusual features being his ridiculously large eyebrows, enormous guitar tattoo, and fading British accent that makes the girls swoon. It is a pity he is gay. Opening his eyes slowly, he blinks a few times, before slamming his hand on the alarm clock, making it fly across his small bedroom. Not quite awake yet, he yawns and pulls himself out of bed, then freezes.

There is something on his back, underneath his shirt.

Arthur doesn't think much of it at first, his mind still half-convinced that this morning is a dream, and he pulls his shirt off, tossing it on the floor. He pokes his back cautiously.

Fluffy.

Soft.

Feathers.

Wait. What?

He rushes over to his bathroom mirror, tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Arthur Kirkland has two _white angel wings sprouting out of his back._

That can't be right. _This has got to be a dream, right? Or a prank that Peter, little sneak that he is, pulled?_

Arthur stares in the mirror for another moment, marveling at the absolute _weirdness _of the scene. He is standing in front of his shower, on a Thursday, with two white wings that may-or-may-not be real.

He twitches the left one experimentally. It flicks upward. He tries stretching the right one. It knocks his towel off the bar.

Ok, so maybe, _completely_ real.

He sighs, covering his face with his hands, screwing his eyes shut.

Perhaps life would go back to normal if he went back to bed.

_FLYMETHROUGHYOURHEART_

Ten minutes of panicking, one sweatshirt, and a glance at the clock later, Arthur was ready for school. He was about thirty minutes late. That was alright though, he had preCalculus first period, and the teacher was always sleeping. (Arthur was vaguely sure that sleeping was against some set of rules, but whatever.)

Another look in the mirror. Abnormally large eyebrows? Check. Clothing? Check. Wings? The sweatshirt hid them well enough, hopefully. No time for breakfast, sadly. Backpack, yes. Running out, he gets on his bright-blue bike and rides to school. The wings press between his backpack and back; a strange feeling becoming more familiar by the second.

He wonders what he has become, but it doesn't really matter. (That's a lie. Arthur has always been good at fooling himself.)

_FLYMETHROUGHYOURHEART_

The world changes when you've got a secret, and Arthur's is growing out of his shoulder-blades. He sits in the back of the green classroom, that day, trying to be as ordinary as possible, pressing his back to the chair and staring down at the floor. It's not hard for Arthur to be inconspicuous, with characters in his preCalculus class like Gilbert Beilschmidt(the AWESOME FIVE METERS) and Lovino Vargas(Cursing machine extrordinaire). So he creeps in through the back door, and sits in the empty seat in the back, the one with the broken desk. No one notices, except for Alfred, who smiles and waves at him to come over. Arthur ignores him.

Arthur, being the good little student he is, attempts to listen to the teacher talk about x and y and how they are multiplied and divided and God knows what. He doesn't really like math all that much. The wings itch against his back, and he has the urge to spread them. It is a sensation not unlike that of having a fist clenched for a long time. He shifts in his chair, and casually reaches a hand up to scratch his back, when a ball of paper hits him smack in the forehead. He looks up, with his _Patented British Glare of Doom. _Alfred grins back, and mouths, '_open it.' _Al had always been suspiciously immune to the _British Glare of Doom. _

Arthur sighs. And opens the crumpled paper.

"_Hi Artie! Y u late to class 2day? Math's no fun w/o u. And y are u sitting in the back?"(1)_

He hastily scribbles a reply and throws it back.

"_Stop using text-speak, git. Got up late, that's all. No reason, really."_

"_not gonna happen, artie. U kno u 3 it. So how's life 4 u?"_

"_I told you to write like a normal person. It's alright. And you?"_

" _i AM a normal person, ur the 1 that's weird and English-y. I'm awesome. U wanna come hang out l8ter at my place?"_

"_I am NOT 'weird and English-y', you just lack a sense of proper grammar. And yeah, su-"_

The much-abused note is promptly plucked out of Arthur's hand by the teacher, who scowls darkly at him and says the one dreaded word.

"Detention, Kirkland."

Well, fuck.

_FLYMETHROUGHYOURHEART_

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. Calculus, English, Music Theory, Lunch….it's a well-worn pattern that Arthur is accustomed to, a routine that is surprisingly undisrupted by the Wings. Apart from the ache in his back. As the day progresses, the Wings ache more and more, feeling akin to a large headache….on his back. But Arthur is nothing if not determined, and goes about his day studiously ignoring it. If he is a bit quieter than normal, no one really notices. His friends are loud enough to make up for his lack of speech. Namely, one such Alfred F. Jones.

Alfred F. Jones. Arthur's sometimes-best-friend, sometimes-largest-annoyance, and all-the-time-love interest. Their relationship is complicated, to say the least. Al is everything Arthur is not, popular, athletic, and larger than life. Golden-boy Alfred F. Jones, never caught without a smile on his face, everyone's friend, and completely oblivious to any sort of romantic tension involving him. Contrast this _shining _example of a young man to Arthur; sarcastic, antagonistic, and a bit too ordinary. It's just Arthur's luck that he is desperately, in the way only teenagers can be, desperately in love with Alfred. (The world hates Arthur. It really does.)

Detention takes place in room 262, second floor of the main building. It is an ordinary room, with ordinary desks and chairs, and Arthur is moderately mortified to be caught in there. He hasn't had a detention since freshman year. He takes a seat in the back of the room and lays his head on his hands, attempting to sleep.

A chair scrapes against the cracked linoleum floors, and a light, teasing voice from the right.

"Why, whatever are you doing here, Arthur?"

"Fuck off, Francis."

"But _cher, _this is such a surprise. How on earth did _you _manage to get detention?"

"I managed it well enough in freshman year, _frog. _It's not of your business-and what the hell are you doing here anyway?"

"_That, _Arthur, would be telling."

"PDA?"

"…Perhaps."

"I knew it."

Arthur smirks slightly, his head still squished against the desk.

"Now kindly shut up, Francis, I'm trying to sleep."

Silence. Blessed, golden, silence that does nothing to help the pounding headache in the back of Arthur's head. Alas, it is broken far too quickly.

"Alfred was looking for you, you know."

Arthur groans.

"That git? He's the reason I'm _in _here for God's sake."

"He was looking for you, all the same. Something about 'apologizing' and 'hanging out later"

"Oh."

Silence triumphs over the teenage boys, and they spend the next two hours without speaking.

After detention, Arthur hurries out the door, and down the hallway. His wings hurt something awful, prickling hot and cold, a steady throb-heartbeat of pain. Time to go home, and sort this mess out. He heads to the front entrance, where he had left his bike tied to a fence. The school has a lonely feeling so late in the afternoon.

Arthur is not a creature of impulse, but when he passes by one of the maintenance doors, he hesitates for a moment. A cold, clear draft of air leaks from the crack between floor and door, and Arthur walks over, slowly, to rest his hand on the handle, and jiggles it slightly. It's unlocked, and probably leads to the roof of the building. The idea half formed in the back of his mind springs forward. He presses down, and opens the door.

The school roof was the perfect place to try flying.

_FLYMETHROUGHYOURHEART_

It's windier than it was this morning as Arthur surveys the grey concrete of the school roof. It's astoundingly ugly. The ugliest roof ever. The ugliest. But it's high up, maybe about three stories high, isolated, and therefore an excellent place to attempt to fly.

Those wings better not be useless.

Arthur steps onto the ledge, stares down at the ground two and a half stories below, and swallows nervously. He's beginning to rethink this decision, and forces himself to look upwards, instead of down. He peels his sweatshirt off slowly, still staring at the sky. It's a beautiful day. He closes his eyes, and attempts to unfold his wings, which are stiff and sort of sore from disuse, when he hears "ARRTHUUUUUUUUUUUR" and a warm body tumbles into his and Arthur falls onto the butt-ugly scratchy concrete and suddenly, Alfred is hugging him and babbling something about jumping off roofs and stupid and don't do things like that Artie.

Wait, what just happened?

Arthur blinks, and looks down at Alfred, who's got his arms tightly clasped around Arthurs waist and face buried in his shirt, still mumbling something about "why were you jumping off a roof". Oh. Arthur sighs.

"Alfred. I wasn't jumping off a roof, Al."

Alfred looks up at Arthur with watery eyes and a frown.

"Well, what else _were _you doing, Arthur? 'Cause it looked to me like you were jumping off the school roof and that's not a good thing Artie were you trying to kill yourself? Cause that would be _really really awful _and I'd miss you so fucking much cause I really really _like _you, I mean _like _like and you'd better not try that again and I'm not letting you out of my sight until you _promise _not to do that again and Artie _why were you jumping off the roof?"_

He says all this in one breath, and it sort of makes Arthur want to smile with how much of a little kid Al sounds like.

"I'll show you if you let go of me, ok?"

He supposes there's no helping it now, in fact, he's surprised that Al hadn't noticed the wings yet. Then again, Al has always been a bit oblivious.

"…Promise not to jump off the roof?"

"Promise."

Al lets go, reluctantly, and Arthur stretches his wings to their full span. Al's eyes widen and his mouth hangs open. Arthur smirks, slightly.

"Well is this a good enough reason to jump off a roof?"

"You can _fly, _Artie? Why didn't you tell me you had wings? That's _so cool! _Show me show me show me pleaaaaase?"

Arthur's smirk falters.

"Well, ah, I'm not sure if I _can _fly, actually. I was trying it out just now."

The grin on Al's face could light an entire castle of lightbulbs.

"Show me? But maybe we should start somewhere lower. Like a playground!"

Arthur laughs, and he feels better than he had all day.

"Yeah, ok Al. Let's go do that."

He puts his sweatshirt back on and they walk back downstairs together.

_FLYMETHROUGHYOURHEART_

The two teens are walking out the door when a thought occurs to Arthur.

"Did you mean it, when you said you l-liked me?"

Alfred laughs, nervous, and his cheeks blush pink.

"M-maybe. Kind of. Yeah. Sorry if that's awkward"

Arthur blushes, and a small smile works its way onto his face.

"I like you too, dumbass. It's not awkward at all."

And somehow, despite this fucking abomination of a Thursday, everything seems just fine. (And if they walk out the door holding hands, well, that just might be why.)

_FLYMETHROUGHYOURHEART_

_(1)-apologies about the text speak. But Al _would _use it. come on, you know he would :D_

_*sigh* I feel like I'm rushing everything. Oh well. And I feel like Al and Artie's relationship is not very well constructed…maybe I'll go back and edit later. :P_

_Reviews would be lovely._


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